The Baltic War(301)

Simpson raised his hand, his expression lightening a great deal. "Please, Mike. I'm fully aware of how bad the fallout is likely to be. And I'm just as aware that there's an easy solution to it all. But I'm still not going to force Eddie into it."



Mike smiled. "Who said anything about 'forcing' him? I simply point out two things to you. The first is that any man who successfully ran a major corporation for umpteen years has got to have some skill at getting people to do what he wants them to do, without breaking their heads. Am I right?"



"Well. Yes."



"Thought so. And the second thing I'll point out is that since he got put back under arrest, Eddie has clammed up completely. The only thing he says—so the Danes tell me—is that the only one he'll report to is his commanding officer, Admiral Simpson."



Simpson's lips quirked. It wasn't quite a smile. "Yes, I know. And, yes, I understand your point. I'll do what I can. But when are they going to allow me to speak to him?"



Mike coughed into his fist. "Well . . . actually, John, I've been the one dragging it out, not them. I wanted to make sure I had Harry in place, first. So . . ."



He glanced over and saw that Gustav Adolf and Christian were alone, for the moment. "Give me a minute."



It took two minutes, before he got back. "Right after the meeting. In fact, they'll have Eddie brought to one of the rooms off to the side."



Simpson nodded again. Even more stiffly than before. Then, very quietly, he said, "It is a pleasure to have you as my commander-in-chief, Prime Minister Stearns."



Axel Oxenstierna stood up. "The session will resume!"



Mike rose and went back to his chair at the table. Becky was already there. And if anybody wondered why a female who was merely a senator from one of the provinces of the United States enjoyed one of the coveted seats at The Table, they could kiss Mike's sweet ass. On some subjects, he and the seventeenth century saw eye to eye, thank you.





"—following principalities will henceforth be part of the province of Hesse-Kassel: Paderborn, the Duchy of Westphalen—"



"Someday," Mike muttered, "somebody is going to have to explain to me the logic of creating a new province called 'Westphalen'—and then incorporating the existing Duchy of Westphalen into a different province."



"It's a seventeenth-century thing," Becky whispered. "You wouldn't understand."



"—Waldeck, Wittgenstein, the northern portions of Nassau-Siegen and Nassau-Dillenberg, Wied, Trier east of the Rhine, parts of Mark and Berg, Corvey—"



"Smart ass," Mike complained. "And where the hell do you pick up all these Americanisms, anyway?"



"I hang out with a bad crowd at the mall," Becky whispered. "And you're muttering too loudly."



"—into the new Upper Rhenish Province: The remnants of the Rhine-Palatinate, Pfalz-Zweibrücken, the Diocese of Speyer, Erbach, Saarbruecken—"



"Let's have three cheers for coherent political geography. Free at last, free at last . . ."



"Michael—hush." She slid her hand under the table and squeezed his knee. Since the squeeze turned into a caress, Mike decided to shut up. It never pays to irritate a very affectionate but political-junkie wife at a major political conference where she has a ringside seat.



"—Saarwerden, Hagenau, Dagsberg, the northern portion of the Diocese of Strassburg, Obersalm, Landstuhl—"





At the next break, Mike tracked down Prince Ulrik. It was time for a casual conversation, he figured.



That proved to be a lot harder. Not because Ulrik was hard to find, but because Mike had to fight his way through three circles of admiring young Danish noblewomen who surrounded him. There were some Germans in there too, he thought, and at least one Swedish girl.



Again, it would seem odd, if you didn't understand the time and place. Why, after all, would the fact that a young man was about to become betrothed to a princess make him attractive to other women? There was not a cold chance in hell that he'd abandon a match with Kristina for anything else.



But . . . there were wives, and there were mistresses, and nobody knew yet whether Ulrik was going to be one of those monarchs—Gustav Adolf being an example—who dallied little if at all. Or whether he'd prove to be a chip off the old block and follow his father's example. For an ambitious and enterprising young noblewoman, the status of royal mistress was a lot more exciting—not to mention probably remunerative—than that of a nobleman or rich merchant's wife. Especially when the prince was young, physically fit and rather good-looking, and the nobleman or merchant was likely to be a pot-bellied middle-aged man with flatulence and bad breath.